at least I have pretty hair

I'm working on memorizing my lines for monday, as that's when my group is responsible for presenting act one of Troilus and Cressida to my English class. But as I study these lines, I can' thelp but notice that there's something at least disturbing if not ironic about all the hours I'm spending memorizing what is a very likely candidate for "Worst Shakespeare Play Ever". I'm playing Ulysses, so at least pretty much all the decent lines in that act are mine. When I'm not working on lines, I'm doing research. On refugees. It is somehow less than uplifting -- fucking depressing one might even say. I am one.

In an attempt to stave off absolute burn out and really ugly hair I went and got a *free* haircut last night. My friend Karyn is an apprentice hairdresser and is looking for hair to cut for free Tuesdays and Wednesdays at 6:30 pm. She works at a swanky salon by granville and 12th, and is closely watched by swanky professionals therefore guarenteed not to fuck up your hair. Tust me, she did a grogeous job on mine last night. In short, if you want a sweet free haircut, lemme know and I'll hook you up (sorry, girl hair only for the next few weeks, but boy hair starting soon). Okay, end of sales pitch.

I am getting more and more anxious in my anticipation of end of term, plotting all the christmas season festivities I want to participate in, including a good possibility for a party chez moi sometime next month. Mmmm parties. Mmmm christmas -- an excuse for extra shopping, extra cooking, extra parties, extra time with family, and extra eating (I'm picturing shortbread here...). But for now, it's still paper time, and I really ought to be thumbing throught the lastest editions of the International Migration Review. sigh. I'd rather be eating cookies.